Thanks to some wonderful advice from NicoleMarieDubois (thank you!), I have revamped this chapter, while keeping all necessary information intact. Enjoy! :)
XI
.
The night air blew cold as Christine stood on the balcony, away from the dancing and near the same fated tree she and Erik once perched in to watch a similar event. Sadly she stared out over the moon-washed moors, feeling as if she could hear the ghostly laughter of two small, innocent children who once upon a happier time had made this rugged, wild land their playground.
She gave a wistful, bittersweet exhalation of breath, crossing her arms and rubbing them, attempting to recapture a fraction of warmth forever lost. In the wind, she could hear the lingering whisper of music, the ghosts of happy days gone by...
Often, she had sung for him. When he was a boy, she persuaded him to sing with her – and had been astonished by the sweet, enduring beauty of his voice. Once he grew into a man, he declined to sing, telling her he wished only to hear his "angel's voice" as he played…she wished now she had insisted. How she would have loved to carry the memory of his voice singing to her. He felt so far away.
She once told him neither angels nor demons nor mortals could separate them.
But his Little Angel, with her devilish words, had done just that.
"Christine…?"
Her heart gave a mad jump at the sudden shock of a voice, low and barely heard over the music. For a moment she thought…
No, that was impossible.
Turning to see, she pushed aside a rush of disappointment and held her hands out to her gallant host.
"Raoul."
"What are you doing here all alone?" He moved forward, taking hold of her gloves. "Does the party not please you?"
"Of course, it's wonderful," she hurried to say, not wishing to injure his feelings.
Even the balls, as grand as they were, had lost their allure and sparkle. This birthday ball the de Chagnys held in honor of her eighteenth year, as sweet as it was for them to remember her, didn't hold a candle to carefree birthdays shared with Erik or the simple gifts he'd given: fresh flowers from the heath, accompanied by one of his beautiful poems; an angel he carved from a stick of wood; the incredible gift of his music.
"I only needed a breath of air. It's so very warm in there."
"Are you feeling unwell? Would you care to retire to your room and lie down for a spell. I can find a maid to tend you."
"No, Raoul. I'm fine." She forced a smile. During the bleakest of days, when everything viciously served to remind her of Erik, Christine had two dear friends bent on making her remember that her place was now with them.
The concern faded and a hopeful light entered his eyes. "In that case, perhaps you would care to dance?"
The thought of revisiting the crowded floor where she was a constant source of curiosity brought little appeal. "I think instead I would like a slice of cake."
"Of course." He smiled and inclined his head in a genial bow. "I will see to it at once."
He left and she moved from the balcony to the outskirts of the ballroom, turning her attention to the dancing couples. Arabella waltzed by with a dignified looking gentleman - a baron or duke, she could not recall - the poor man bumbling in his steps, while Arabella appeared to be having a marvelous time in spite of it, doing what she loved best.
Christine shook her head in weary amusement of the last six months.
Since their return from France, Arabella worked with diligence to distract her, clearly anxious that Christine might again sink into despair after losing her dear little Mozart. To Raoul's horror and Christine's surprise, Arabella had danced in her fluffy tutu, having one also made for Christine, and taught her exercises for the ballet in the ballroom, insisting they would help strengthen muscles still weak from so long being idle. Wanting to please her friend, she submitted to the amateur lessons and actually found relief to expunge her lingering heartache in excruciating movements that tested every limb and muscle. She soon regarded the elegant ballet as an outlet for her grief and anger. The de Chagnys had watched in startled shock as Christine gave every part of herself to the dance, her talent and inborn grace rising to the fore, even if some movements were expressions she created, stemming from the violent surge of feelings unspoken and not the conventional steps practiced within professional troupes.
But tonight's maneuvered dance held no appeal, except as a bystander, and even that grew wearying. As Christine watched the couples swirl to and fro in their structured steps, Raoul returned with her cake. Thanking him, she took the plate and a small bite of the buttery delicacy, though she wasn't hungry. The cake had been a convenient excuse to avoid a waltz.
An elderly bearded gentleman approached and spoke with Raoul. She had been introduced to so many, she could not recall his name or title. The men instantly engaged in deep conversation. Left to herself, Christine drifted away, not at all inclined to hear about unofficial contracts and current politics which was what the men discussed.
Within the wide mesh of dancers, far on the other side of the room, the tall, lithe figure of a man caught her eye…Christine frowned and stared more closely at the dancing couple. As he pivoted, she glimpsed a black mask.
The plate fell from her lifeless hands. The blood drained from her numb face.
"Christine?" Raoul was suddenly at her elbow. "My God, what happened?"
She walked through the broken crystal and cake, heedless of sharp edges crunching beneath flat slippers. "It's him…" she breathed and would have walked straight into the horde of dancing couples to investigate if Raoul had not caught her arm.
"Christine, please. Get hold of yourself, my dear. Who do you see?"
The male dancer twirled around again. The mask was gone.
She put a hand to her head, feeling dizzy. "I - I'm sorry. I was mistaken. Oh, dear, I did make a mess of the cake, didn't I?" She attempted to laugh but it came out hoarse.
"Forget the cake, a servant will tend to it." Even as he spoke, a girl hurried forward and with a slight bob of her head crouched to gather the glass into a napkin. "Are you all right?" he insisted.
"Only a bit lightheaded. I think I will have that lie down. I hope your guests don't think me rude."
"Never mind that. Arabella?"
Christine watched her friend approach, her brows arched in curiosity.
"Would you help Christine to her room?"
Arabella looked at him strangely, then at Christine. "Are you not feeling well?"
"I'm alright, honestly. Please, I just would like to rest for a bit." Only she was not alright and she wasn't sure she would know how it felt to be sane again.
This was not the first time she thought she had seen Erik in a crowd, and she doubted it would be the last.
xXx
Perhaps it had been her distress that initially drew him to her, a beautiful damsel in need of his aid. But Raoul fell more in love with Christine with the passage of each dawn.
Once the ball ended, he looked for her but did not find her in her sitting room. A knock at her private chamber door assured him she wasn't in her bedroom either. Upon departing, he almost ran into a loitering guest in the corridor. The elderly man's brows lifted in ill conceived humor upon notice of the feminine drawing room that Raoul exited, his smile lecherous as his eyes darted to peer inside, while Raoul firmly closed the door, his back to it. Because Lord Grafton was an old friend of his father, he tolerated the lewd unspoken suggestion without bringing up the matter and answered his query with regard to an upcoming hunt, all the while steering the man toward the staircase and front door.
He knew that those in the village and out of it gossiped about the unusual arrangement with regard to Christine's continued presence at The Grange. Many had written her off as his mistress. Soon, if he had his way, there would be no more loathsome insinuations and he could show Christine proudly off, as his bride.
Bidding a brief farewell to his annoying guest, he searched other rooms, again entering the ballroom, now empty of revelers. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or distressed to again find her standing alone on the balcony, staring up in wistful contemplation at the tree from which she once fell.
And he knew, yet again, she was thinking of him. Had his rival been flesh, he could fight that and win. But a ghost had no substance…except forever in her mind.
The moonlight glimmered in her upswept curls, the simple silver locket she always wore, that she told him her Papa had given her, accentuating her slender throat like none of the other women's jewels did for them. Her gown was of dove-gray silk, a perfect foil for her dark beauty.
After the events of the evening, after again finding her here, like this, Raoul could no longer remain silent.
"Christine …"
She turned to look and smiled at him, feeling almost remorseful that he should find her out here like this again. After seeing the man in the mask, or rather, the mirage of her beloved, she had needed to separate herself from everyone. Rest had done nothing for her body when her mind was constantly attuned to every noise, trying to hear his voice in the fading memories, and she had again found herself taking the stairs down to the place where their troubles all began.
Raoul came up beside her, taking her gloved hand in his and holding it up between them. "There is something I must say that has been on my heart for some time. You must know how I have come to feel about you, how I have long felt, ever since you first came to The Grange … I love you. I want to love you always."
Christine stared at him in wide-eyed wonder, her heart beating fast. This might be the answer, the way to forget. He was the perfect host, the sweetest escort, the most handsome man at the ball…
…and when his lips slowly lowered to hers, she did not pull away.
Desperate to feel warm and alive again she pressed closer to this storybook prince who had rescued her on more than one occasion and perhaps could eliminate the constant hollow ache of loss that throbbed inside what was left of her withered heart.
He took her silent invitation, wrapping her chilled body in his warm arms, deepening the kiss with a soft groan. His tongue sought hers and she gave it, tasting his kiss, tasting him and the hint of spicy after dinner brandy the gentlemen drank at social gatherings. Being in his embrace felt pleasant and restful. She could grow accustomed to this, could find for herself a life here and live out her days beside him, becoming a mother to his children …
The image of eyes like golden fire and kisses that melted her very insides captured her mind, and she pulled away with a sharp pinprick of shock.
"Christine, what is it?" His deep blue eyes regarded her with concern.
She blinked rapidly, flustered and confused. She could not do this.
"Raoul, you mustn't. I – I'm so sorry." She tried to speak and laid her glove against his sleeve. "You're a wonderful man. Any woman would be most fortunate to receive your attentions … but …"
"But?" He looked at her, anxious yet expectant.
"For me, there will only ever be one man."
The glow in his eyes dimmed. "Erik."
"Yes. I'm sorry."
He shook his head. "Christine, you cannot stop living. You have to go on, to live your life and not just exist in it. You're far too precious to live alone and never marry. You deserve to be pampered and petted and loved to the fullest extreme. I want to give you all those things. I can make you happy, Little Lotte. Perhaps, in time, you can learn to love me. Only give me that morsel of hope, and I will wait for you, as long as it takes."
The old nickname cut into her heart, though she knew he didn't mean to hurt her. His words were so hopeful, so endearing, she found herself earnestly wishing she could give him the answer he craved. Perhaps he was right … perhaps she could do as he asked.
He looked into her eyes and took her hand in his. Through her glove his touch was warm, gentle, the caress of his thumb sweet and reassuring.
They had shared some companionable moments since she'd been at The Grange and during their travels. Conceivably, in time, she could give herself to him …
But never in the same wildly passionate and unreserved manner that you felt for Erik, her conscience vehemently protested, still feel. And bitterly she succumbed to the defeat of such honesty.
It was, perhaps, to her grave misfortune – but she loved a ghost.
Years had passed since the ill-fated night Erik left, and her feelings had not altered for him. She dwelled in memories as if they were air and she needed them to exist; at times she wished she could cut them out of her before her obsession with him completely destroyed her. During desperate moments such as tonight's bizarre parade of them, she resolved to do what she must to try to expunge his memory. And it was with that knowledge she knew the answer she must give, the only answer she could give.
She might share Raoul's tender kisses and one day his bed and his life, even find a source of contentment and pleasure in his arms. But he deserved much more than just the shell of her body. He deserved her heart, the essence of all she was. And because he was so good and kind, indeed, the sweetest man she had known, she could not be selfish and chain him to marriage to a woman without a soul, with a heart taken by another, a woman who could never give him even half the love that should be his to possess.
"No." She shook her head softly, slipping her hand from his hold. "It's best this way. You must marry a woman who will love you for the man you are, who will love you madly and completely and unreservedly, with no phantoms haunting her life."
He opened his mouth to protest, but she laid her gloved fingertips gently against his lips. "No, please. Don't. Nothing you can say will change my mind. I've decided. In fact …" She had not thought of it until now, but knew it was for the best. "It's time I went home. Back to The Heights."
"No, Christine. This is your home now. I promise, I'll not introduce the subject again. We can go on as we have before. Only do not go back to that place and that cousin of yours. I don't trust him."
To remain would be so easy. Why was he making this so difficult? All of her life she had catered to what Christine wanted, bent on satisfying Christine's whims and pleasing Christine's desires, even in recent years when she'd taken little or no joy from them. If Raoul were anything less than the man he was, she might yield to his wishes and simply live out her life at The Grange as she had been doing, as something of a ward but not exactly that, allowing her friends to lavish on her their many kindnesses. But his long-hidden devotion had been irrevocably aired.
They could never go on as they had before.
"Raoul, dear Raoul ... " She shook her head, her tone wistful. "Only you would say something so kind after I told you I cannot marry you. Please don't fear for me. I know how to deal with my cousin. Elizabeth was kind when I ..." Christine helplessly shook her head, not even wanting to allude to those horrible weeks of her greatest sorrow. "I should be there to help her, as she once helped me." A few days ago Arabella had shared news from The Grange that she'd heard from her ladies' maid, who in turn heard at the market that Elizabeth was bedridden and had been for weeks. "I could stay, but in time you may come to regret my presence here, even resent me for not loving you. I do love you but not as you would wish me to." It also worried her that if she gave in and they did marry she might unwittingly come to resent him for not being Erik.
He didn't look convinced. "Christine, I could never harbor ill feeling toward you."
"Perhaps not." She smiled sadly. "But I won't take that risk. Your friendship is too dear to me. I couldn't bear to lose it, especially after having lost so much else in my life."
Unwanted tears filmed her eyes, and again he drew her close, holding her in comfort. It was a long moment before he spoke. "Know that our home is yours, the door is always open. If you ever have need of anything – and I mean anything, Christine – do not hesitate to come to us."
"Thank you, for every one of your many kindnesses." She kissed his cheek then hurried away, not wishing to prolong such a difficult moment.
"I will not give up on you, Christine. On us …."
His distressing words came faint, as if he spoke to himself, but she heard and chose not to acknowledge him. Could not.
Tears choked her throat. Somehow, she must now say goodbye to Arabella and equally dreaded the task though she hoped her friend would agree to come visit. It was too much to ask Raoul to do so after her rejection of his proposal, after the way he still clearly felt. It would be difficult to leave The Grange, what had been to her a lovely resting place to heal as much as she ever would, to start anew. The prospect of piecing together the scattered fragments of her life was overwhelming, even terrifying …
But Christine knew the time had come to try.
xXx